The Button Box

One of the projects my Seniors are currently working on is autobiographical writing.  I promised them I'd be doing the project along with them, as I wouldn't have them do something I myself wouldn't do, so... I just finished a piece of writing I'd like to share.  Since I don't have a teacher to submit my efforts to, I'm putting it on the Interwebz for others to see.  And since I have this blog linked to my teacher website, students can access it and read, if they like. 

It is longer than I expected, a little over two pages, typed.  But... here it goes.  I've titled it "The Button Box."

I am a bit of a hoarder.  Not in the “OhmyGod your house should be condemned!” sort of way, but I definitely hold on to stuff.  I save cards people have given me, my daughter’s art, writing, and grade sheets, pictures not in frames, shoes I just can’t give up yet, pens, books, etc.  If it has value and meaning to me, I’m holding on to it.  I can’t help it… and I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.

This weekend, I was cleaning and reorganizing my sewing room.  For the last three years, my niece was living in it, and most of my stuff was completely inaccessible.  The only things I really had any access to were my beads and paper crafts.  And yarn.  That is mostly because these were things I stored in places other than her room.  My niece moved out in March, so my old sewing room is free again.  Whee!!! 

We’ve cleaned it, fumigated it (teenagers…ugh!!), and now I’m in the process of rearranging, organizing, and transferring my scattered supplies back into the room.  I am also integrating the massive inheritance my mother left me:  all of her sewing room.

Mom’s sewing room was huge.  I don’t know the actual dimensions, but it was about half the size of my classroom, which is pretty generous.  One long wall was lined with metal and plywood shelves used in garages to store Big Stuff, like holiday decorations, tools, manly stuff.  Mom’s were filled with large plastic bins with lids that fold together with linked flaps, kind of like when you fold your hands.  There were three of these bins per shelf, and four shelves per rack.  Five of these racks lined one wall, and a sixth one occupied another wall, along with two large white melamine cabinets packed with fabric.  Most of these bins contained fabric, although a few contained trims and laces.  Some contained dolls and doll furniture, accessories, etc. 

She had two large bookcases full of books, magazines, and countless binders of patterns, ideas, magazine articles, paper dolls, craft instructions, sewing tips, etc.  Another large bookcase, on top of a 6’ table, was stacked with cards and cards of lace, trims, and ribbons.  She had multiple plastic storage carts with drawers filled with small silk flowers, vintage flowers, tiny doll accessories, buttons, ribbons, more trims, feathers, small dolls, you name it. 

It took me multiple trips over the course of a year to go through it and decide what to keep and what to donate or toss.  The local library received multiple stacks of books on various crafts and hobbies.  Local churches who make quilts for hospitals and charities received so many boxes of fabric, I’m sure they struggled with where to store them!  And what a heyday for those ladies as they went through all those fabrics!  I know mom would have enjoyed seeing their excitement as they opened and went through all the treasures within those boxes.

So rebuilding my sewing room has its pleasures, as well.  And much sadness, as bringing my mother’s things into my home means that she is really gone.  It reminds me of better, happier days, when mom and I would work on sewing doll dresses for some event, listening and singing to show tunes (Andrew Lloyd Webber being a favorite), talking about some subject (favorite topics included history, celebrities, books we were reading, and family stuff), listening to talk radio and chatting about issues, all while our nimble fingers created pretty little things for collectors.  We’d go out for lunch if it was summertime or the weekend (when we teachers have some free time), combining lunch with an opportunity to go to the fabric or craft store. 

As I was moving little storage boxes of buttons and beads to a temporary spot on a shelf, I lifted a small metal lunchbox-style case that was rather heavy.  I’d forgotten what I’d put in there, and gave it a shake.  The resulting soft rattle told me it was full of buttons.  The rattle was a familiar one, a reassuring sound. 

It’s amazing how much certain sounds can bring back memories.  Whenever I hear “Funky Town” or anything from Billy Joel’s “Glass Houses”, I’m instantly transported to the basement of our old house, sitting on a tall wooden stool, listening to music and chatting with my dad while he made stained glass panels.  The sound of a hatchet thumping through a chunk of wood to chop kindling brings the smell of pine and canvas to mind, of camping in my childhood.  The gurgle of coffee brewing in a pot is a homey sound to me, recalling the times we spent with my grandmother in her mobile home in San Diego, waiting impatiently for our turn to be served our own slice of her special French Toast, a rich, crispy, old-fashioned battered bread fried in a sizzling iron skillet.

I didn’t think much about the sound of the buttons in their round, lunchbox-type tin.  But after I turned off the light that night and settled in to sleep, my brain began wandering, as it usually does.  That heavy box of buttons brought to mind my mother’s button box, and wondering where it is now.  Sometime last year, not long after mom died, my dad called me to ask me where it would be in the sewing room.  I suggested it was in one of those large plastic bins on top of a rack nearest the end of the wall, where mom kept old sewing supplies and such.  He called me back to say he’d found it.  I don’t remember why it was important to him.  And I don’t know what he has done with it since then.

Thinking about that button box brought back sensory images of struggling to pop the lid off the button tin, and how I used to love to dig my hands into the shallow sea of buttons inside, the feel of cool plastic, metal, glass and shell slipping over my fingers.  The box was a round, old-fashioned metal tin, about the size of a dinner plate.  It had a sort of nubbly texture, a slightly rough crazed metal lacquer peculiar to tins made in the early 20^th century, darkened by use over time.  It probably was originally designed for cookies or biscuits.  The buttons inside represented a wide variety of fastenings, with plain, dull brown and black buttons, glass fancy-cut ones, tiny shoe buttons, creamy white mother-of-pearl shirt buttons, and all of them in various sizes, some larger than an inch.  There were buttons held together on long safety pins, buttons of woven leather strips, black buttons with metal shanks, metal buttons with nautical or militaristic emblems on them, and even buckles of various sizes and materials, all comingled with a detritus of chipped-off bits, dust, shreds of thread, and a few straight pins that sometimes poked your fingers if you weren’t careful as you rummaged through the box.

How we used to play with those buttons!  On a rainy day, they were “coins” while playing dress-up, loading up old velvet bags to go “shopping” in the basement.  They were employed as game pieces when we were missing a checker or pawn.  Sometimes I’d use them as plates and dishes for my dolls.  I would take them out and organize them just to see how many of each kind were in there, and then get bored because there were so many.  My brother and sister and I each played with them.  When my sister grew up, her kids played with the buttons, too.  I’ve heard them talk about Grandma’s button box fondly, which always made me smile, remembering the same pleasures as a child. 

Over time, the number of buttons in the box diminished.  I’m sure each kid who played with them ferreted away their favorites for various uses, perhaps because it was a special or pretty one.  Maybe it felt good to rub a thumb over its smoothness or unusual texture.  Perhaps they got used for a craft project, or to fix a garment or two.  Or maybe the buttons reminded them of mom/grandma and good times. 

My button box is considerably smaller, about the size of a dessert plate, and the buttons in it aren’t so old and cool as mom’s, mostly leftovers from various projects, with a handful of extra buttons that come with shirts sometimes, but I like to think that it’s carrying on that legacy.  Ella hasn’t wanted to explore it, but… I haven’t had a sewing room for three years, and she probably doesn’t even know it exists.  Once I get the room in working order, though, she’ll be in there plenty of times.  She, too, likes to make things, and to spend time with me while doing that.  We like to listen to music or audiobooks while we work, and to chat, of course.  She wants me to teach her how to do various crafts, and I’m looking forward to sharing with her the things my mother taught me, and the Zen-like pleasure that comes from making something with your hands. 

And, at some point in time, she may need a button.